The Green Light
by TheRavenclawAthena
Summary: In which the girl in the yellow dress loves Gatsby, but he cannot love her back. Based loosely on "Over the Love" by Florence and the Machine. In progress.
1. Chapter 1

I still remember the first time I went to one of Gatsby's parties.

It was a grey, drizzly day, and weariness pervaded the air like a suppressive blanket. I was perched in bed reading, burying myself in words to avoid the gloom of the day.

My sister Anne came bursting into my room with no introduction, in her usual forward manner.

"Please knock," I mumbled, but my words were muffled by her constant stream of conversation.

"Get up, Lucy!" she said, plucking the book from my protesting hands and setting it none too gently on the desk. "We're going to a party."

She stood in front of me impressively, one hand cocked jauntily on her hip, as if expecting some reaction from me.

"Well?" she prompted.

I sighed, still half in the world of the book I'd been reading, resigning myself to the fact that the rest of the day's events would be dictated by my bold sister.

"What party?" I asked, for her benefit more than mine.

"Gatsby's."

"Whose?" Although I didn't think I had ever heard the name before, it struck a chord in my mind, and I found myself unconsciously growing interested. It sounded like a rich name, full of money and mystery and hope.

Anne sighed dramatically. "Jay Gatsby. He's only the richest man on Long Island, and he throws these marvelous parties in his mansion on West Egg. Self-made, too, and terribly handsome, or so they say."

I realized I must've seen his name in the papers, in association with the raucous parties he threw weekly at his house, which drew in thousands of people from all over New York and beyond.

"Hurry, put on your party dress and do your hair!" Anne said. "Evelyn is picking us up in half an hour."

Evelyn was Anne's bosom companion, an abrasive, insolent girl with mounds of dark hair and a crooked smile. I didn't particularly like Evelyn, or parties, but I knew Anne wouldn't permit me to stay behind and read as I wanted, so I went to the closet and pulled out the one truly beautiful dress I owned, which I had only had a couple of opportunities to wear.

It was simple but elegant, made of flowing tulle which fell just below my knees. It was sleeveless and had a wide sash around the waist. And, it was bright yellow. Its rich color filled me with happiness whenever I wore it, and I found myself smiling as I smoothed it over my hips and looked at myself in the mirror.

Anne came bustling into my room in her gaudy red party dress, her face heavily made up, and looked me over. "Well, you look nice, I suppose," she said with a slight frown. Then she handed me a tube of red lipstick and said, "Try this."

I put it on lightly and hesitantly, never having worn makeup before. I didn't quite look like myself once it was on, but I didn't entirely dislike the effect it had on my face.

Anne laughed. "See? It makes a world of difference."

A boisterous honking sounded from outside. Evelyn was, as usual, making an entrance.

Anne dashed outside and embraced her friend, and both of them instantly dissolved into giggles about something of which I was not a part.

I walked to the car slowly and sat in the backseat. Anne and Evelyn did not even seem to notice me, but immediately began a steady flow of gossip about all of the people they knew and some they did not.

Soon, the gossip turned to Gatsby.

"I heard he's a German spy, you know," Evelyn said, taking her eyes off the road to turn to Anne and widen her eyes for dramatic effect.

"Well, I heard he went to Oxford," Anne said, not wanting to be outdone, and feeling sharply her lack of interesting rumors about the mysterious Gatsby.

Evelyn laughed superiorly, honking her horn at a nearby car for no other reason than the fun of it. "That's nothing. You know, he's killed a man."

Anne gasped and put her hand at her throat, while I laughed internally at the rumors about Gatsby that flowed like bootlegged alcohol from people's mouths. I was sure that Gatsby was an old, bitter man who had been born into money and was now squandering it recklessly in an attempt to gain praise and recognition.

The narrow roads soon became congested with flashy cars all on the way to the same destination. Evelyn drove recklessly, using her horn liberally, and Anne laughed at the thrill of it while I clung to my seat.

Before we saw the party, we could hear it. Jazzy music filled the air with bright chords of magic. Laughter and joyous shouting floated on the breeze. The day no longer seemed grey and dreary, but bright and full of possibilities.

And then I saw it. We veered around a sharp corner, and suddenly Gatsby's mansion appeared, domineering my vision with its sheer size. After its vastness ceased to astound me, I noticed its beauty. For beautiful it was, catching the rosy light of the setting sun and reflecting its majesty back into the world. It was stunning.

I zoomed back into reality as Anne grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the backseat. I walked behind her and Evelyn as they joined the mad rush of people entering the house.

People. So many people, and so much noise. I did not know where to look or which conversations to listen to. The music from the band floated over the cacophony around me, containing it and uniting it. We were all here for one reason: to party. And a party we certainly got.

I found myself alone amidst all of the strange faces, but I was not concerned. The largeness of the party was intimate. No one knew me or cared about who I was. We all had the chance to reinvent ourselves at Gatsby's parties, and that was the true beauty of them.

Eventually, my eyes landed on Anne and Evelyn, who had integrated themselves into a large group of bright young people. Evelyn already had a man on her arm, and he was gazing at her like she was the only girl in that party full of beautiful girls who was worth looking at. I wondered what magic she had that enabled her to ensnare men in that way, and for a brief, uncharacteristic second, I wished I had it, wished I could be more a part of this desperately joyful scene.

I touched Anne lightly on the elbow and she pulled me into the group with a laugh. I felt very much an outsider, watching these shimmering, smiling youths who were drunk on love and alcohol, both of which flowed freely. But I was a part of it, too, adding my own laughter to the ringing sounds around me. I was inside and outside of that party.

I found that Anne had disappeared and a redheaded girl who'd somehow already managed to have too many drinks had replaced her by my side.

"Do you see her?" the girl hissed in my ear, pointing to a dark-haired woman who was standing nearby, clustered in the center of a bunch of attentive men. "That's Jordan Baker. She's a golfer." The girl laughed uproariously at her own words, and I suspected that it wasn't really her laughing, but rather the alcohol flowing through her system.

The girl disappeared, and I took a good look at Jordan Baker, whom I'd seen before in the papers. She wasn't beautiful, but rather charming. Her black dress plunged scandalously low on her back, exposing her sharp shoulder blades and boyish figure. She laughed, and all of the men around her did too, as if their minds were connected to her by invisible threads. I marveled at her power over them. I'd always thought beauty was the most important thing a girl could have, but here, surrounded by all of these bold women in flashy gowns, I realized that it was something else, some sort of indescribable careless joy which unconsciously attracted men like flies to honey.

Jordan must've caught me staring, for she flashed me a smile and gave me a breezy wave of her hand. I rose my hand slowly in return, but she turned away before she could see it.

For the first time that night, I felt a bit lonely. I was fully an outsider now, and I could not participate in the proceedings around me, perhaps because I had not been drinking like everyone else. I'd taken a glass of champagne from one of the waiters milling about because it seemed the proper thing to do, but I hadn't tasted it. I instead held it in my hand confusedly as I walked through the party aimlessly.

I eventually found my way inside the mansion, still clutching my untouched glass of champagne like a lifeline, my one connection to the many strangers around me.

I made my way up the staircase, trying my best to avoid the multitude of intoxicated people crowding about. I ran my hand over the glossy, rich wood of the staircase. As I wound higher, the view below became more stunning as the people became smaller. Every detail of the house was intricate and balanced. I pretended the house belonged to me, that I knew what was at the top of the staircase and was making my way there purposefully; here, amidst this splendor, I could be anything I wanted.

I found a library at the top of the staircase. The door was opened just a sliver; I pushed on it with the palm of my hand, and it opened smoothly, as if loosened by regular use.

Out of all the enchanting sights I had seen that night, the library was the only one that took my breath away. Bookcases surrounded the walls, and a balcony wrapped around the top floor with steps leading up to it. A welcoming fire crackled in the fireplace, and rich, cozy chairs were placed invitingly about the room. I stood in the middle of it, glowing in my yellow dress, breathing in the sheer number of books around me.

Feeling my very soul drawn to them, I reached out a hand and plucked one off the nearest shelf. I flipped through its pages, feeling the richness of the uneven pages. Then I brought it to my nose and breathed in its musty, mystical scent. Without reading a single word or even knowing its title, I had absorbed the entire book.

I found myself wanting to absorb every book in the library. I set my glass of champagne down and ran my hand along the spines of the books closest to me. Gaining confidence, I widened my sphere, walking along the room with one hand moving fluidly along the books, the edges of my fingerprints catching gently on the smooth spines of the books. I moved hesitantly at first, and then quickly, and then I was practically running, my loose dress flowing behind me.

Suddenly I stopped, and a laugh bubbled to my lips. I heard another laugh, mirroring my own, coming from the other end of the room.

Startled, I turned around. As I did so, my dress snagged on the sharp corner of the bookshelf.

I processed my torn dress with only a small part of my mind, because there was a man standing on the balcony, arms resting casually on the railing as he looked at me and laughed with me. He was wearing a black suit, and a prominent ring was on his left hand, which hung over the railing. I couldn't tell what he looked like; the distance made his features blur together until he was diminished to a suit and a ring.

"You like the books, I see," he said, "I'm afraid I haven't read as many of them as I'd like to."

He turned and began walking down the staircase which led from the balcony to the lower floor. His strides were long and confident, as if he was on familiar territory.

As he came nearer, I saw that his handsomely tailored suit was nothing compared to his face. It demanded attention. It was tanned and smooth, with high cheekbones and bright blue eyes.

He approached me and smiled. His smile was wonderful. It enveloped his whole face, making his other features recede before its brightness. His smile somehow knew me, understood me, believed in me.

"Who . . . Who are you?" I asked, my voice sounding a bit swallowed.

"Me?" He looked shocked at my question, and then laughed; not meanly, but rather as if we shared a secret joke. "Why, I'm Gatsby. Jay Gatsby."

He offered his hand, and I took it, noticing again the ring on his little finger. It had a design on it, some kind of flower, but before I could examine it more closely, the hand disappeared comfortably into his pocket and his face once again absorbed me.

"I . . . I beg your pardon, Mr. Gatsby. I was just admiring your books."

He smiled. "No need to apologize. In fact, I should be the one apologizing; you see, I'm not a very good host." Before I could say that it was just the opposite, he added, "But what is your name?"

"Lucille," I said, and then, feeling a desire to know him better, and to have him know me, I added, "Lucy."

"Are you having a good time, Lucy?"

Something about his polished manners and frank expression compelled me to speak with honesty. "The house is beautiful, but I'm afraid I'm not much for parties."

"Ah, yes . . ." His words trailed off and he became preoccupied, as if what I'd said had reminded him that there was in fact a party happening at his house, right outside the isolated refuge of the quiet library.

He strode to the window, his lips parted slightly. "I wonder . . ." he said quietly as he peered down at the party below. He scanned his eyes over the chaotic scene quickly, as if trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd, and then he shook his head firmly, forcing himself back into reality. A different smile was on his face now, a close-lipped expression which spoke of resolve and something else, some unexplainable twinge of hope lost.

"Ah, well, it's no matter," he said, appearing to speak to me, but responding to his own words by drawing his shoulders back and turning from the window.

"At any rate, they seem to be enjoying themselves," he said. "But there's something tragic about a party, don't you think?" His words came out quickly, distractedly, as if he didn't even consciously know what he was saying, but was rather speaking from the depths of his soul; or, perhaps he was talking quickly so that he could disguise his own soul from himself.

Before I could answer his question, before I even knew how I would answer it, he motioned me to the window and said, "Come, look at this."

I walked over to the window and looked down at the gaudy pandemonium of the party.

"No, not the party," he said. "There, across the water."

He pointed with his slim finger and I followed with my eyes. He seemed to be pointing at a small green light in the distance.

He looked at me and smiled, but somehow I felt as if the smile wasn't for me, but for whatever enchantment that flickering light held for him. His eyes were wide, and I could almost see a bit of that green light reflected in them.

I opened my mouth to ask him, but before he could tell me the significance of the light, a man in a dark suit whom I presumed was Gatsby's butler poked his head in the room and said, "Telephone from Chicago, Mr. Gatsby."

"Ah, thank you, I'll be right there," he said immediately, as if he was bound by honor to answer the phone, and then turned back to me to bid me a hasty but polite farewell.

I found myself a bit annoyed at the mysterious phone call which was taking this even more mysterious man away from me before I had had a chance to examine him more closely, but I replied with sincerity, "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Gatsby."

He turned to leave, and then faced me again. "I'll have a new dress sent to you," he said suddenly, as if he just noticed that I'd torn it.

He told me to write down my address on a scrap of paper, and I did so, feeling that it would be almost blasphemy to protest a new dress from this man, who had given his home to the crowds of New York and who obviously had inexhaustible riches. Turning down his offer of a new dress would, somehow, be insulting his honor. I felt this keenly.

And then Gatsby was gone, and I was once again alone in his beautiful library. I could just faintly hear delicate strains of music wafting up from the party below. The party sounded dainty and fresh from here, far removed from the drunken madness I knew would greet me when I returned.

I thought about Gatsby's words: "There's something tragic about a party." I realized I quite agreed with him. Beautiful music and gowns mixed inextricably with drunkenness and rioting to form a careless chaos which was exquisite from a distance, but up close was dirty and twisted. This conglomeration of wild joy and despairing sorrow was called a party, but perhaps a circus would have been a better word for it. I did not want to leave the safe haven of the library and reenter into the swirling sadness of the party.

But return to the party I did. It felt wrong somehow to stay in Gatsby's library and enjoy his books when he had been called away by duty, and so I made my way down the staircase.

The party had reached a drunken frenzy unparalleled to what it had been earlier. Alcohol flowed freely and was drunk without inhibition. People hurled themselves in the splendid swimming pool, and confetti and champagne glasses littered the once-clear water until the smooth marble bottom of the pool could hardly be seen.

As I made my way through this tumultuous whirlwind of colors and sounds, I wondered why Gatsby threw these parties when he seemed to participate in them so little. Perhaps he enjoyed the feeling of control he got when he saw all of these wild people partying at his expense, or appreciated their indebtedness to him, but I thought it was something more. I remembered how he'd looked out of the window so eagerly, and then had acted so hopelessly. Yes, there was a purpose for these parties; everything that orderly, cool man did had to be done for a reason. But I had no idea what the reason was.

Although I hadn't had anything to drink, I felt drunk from the very air, and I didn't particularly like the feeling. My vision began to blur; my brain was overtaxed from attempting to process and organize everything around me. Everything was spinning out of control, and I felt so small, so minuscule in this vortex of strangers. I found myself wanting to get away, needing to get out of this toxic atmosphere and return to the quiet solitude of home.

But first I had to find my sister. I walked through the party alone. I had no concept of how much time had passed before I found her, dancing quite closely with a man whom I had never seen before.

Too exhausted to care about being decorous, I grabbed her arm. "We're going," I said.

I saw her eyes attempt to focus on me and realized how much she'd had to drink.

"Go away," I said to the man she'd been dancing with, and he dropped her hand and staggered away in a sort of stupor.

Anne finally seemed to realize who I was, and she began laughing. "Oh, Luce, I've had the most delightful time," she said through her laughter.

"We're leaving," I said firmly, taking her arm.

"But Evelyn—"

I had forgot about Evelyn. We needed her to get home, and God knew where she was.

I found myself breathing heavily. "All right. We'll find Evelyn and then she'll take us home."

Evelyn wasn't hard to find. She was dancing wildly in the center of a rowdy group, he dark hair flowing behind her as she spun about madly. I snatched her fearlessly and commanded that she take us home. My fear of the party made me bold. I was terrified of what might happen if we stayed.

Evelyn's intoxicated driving wasn't much worse than her sober driving had been, and we made it home safely. I thanked Evelyn brusquely and then hurried to help my sister into bed before she collapsed.

Anne safely asleep, I retired to my room. I sat on my bed for a long while, thinking about the mysterious Jay Gatsby and his pale blue eyes and the tantalizing green light across the bay, before finally, I fell asleep, still wearing my torn yellow party dress.


	2. Chapter 2

Gatsby was as good as his word. He sent me a new party dress.

It came on a Saturday afternoon. I was reading by my window, the pale sunlight shining on the page of my book, when Anne screeched from downstairs, "Luce, come quick! Mr. Gatsby sent you a package!"

I set my book down and rose slowly, making my movements measured in an attempt to gain control of the situation and calm my rapidly beating heart. Although I knew it must be the dress he had promised to send, the very mention of his name brought an upsurge of strange emotions which I did not quite know how to process.

I went downstairs and found impatient Anne had already torn half of the paper off the box. It was from Croirier's, and the paper itself spoke of elegance and wealth.

I took the box from Anne and opened it. A beautiful dress was inside. It was like my old dress, yes, but it was far more splendid. Every detail seemed to have been stitched caressingly by a skilled hand. And the beads, oh the scintillating silver beads. They caught the sunlight falling into the room and reflected it back with even more resplendence. The whole dress was sunshine and raindrops and magic.

Anne gasped and reached out to take the dress, but I possessively tightened my grip on it. Not only was it the finest gown I had ever seen; it was also a tangible piece of the mysterious Gatsby.

Anne frowned and I realized I owed her an explanation. "I . . . I tore my dress at Gatsby's party, and he saw, and he promised to send me a new one."

That certainly was the truth, but it left out so much—blue eyes and white teeth and green light. Some things I knew I could not speak of, could barely even think of, because I felt myself falling in love with the intriguing Jay Gatsby and I didn't know what to do with those unfamiliar feelings.

Anne laughed long and clear. Then she grabbed my arm and began dragging me upstairs.

"Put it on, Luce, we're going back to Gatsby's! You know he throws a party every Saturday; I'll phone Evelyn and tell her to pick us up."

I held the dress in my hands for a long while as Anne's voice floated up from the phone. Finally, I put it on.  
"Ooh," Anne said, coming up the stairs and seeing me standing in front of the mirror. "It's beautiful. You're beautiful, Luce."

There was no hint of jealousy in her voice; rather, it was full of quiet pride, and for that, I loved her. And it was beautiful. I was beautiful. There are times in a girl's life when she feels truly beautiful. Not that she knows she is beautiful, or that she knows others perceive her as beautiful, but the moments when she truly _feels_ beautiful, right down to her very soul. And right there, in front of the small mirror in my bedroom, wearing that rich yellow gown, I felt wholly, utterly beautiful.

Anne got ready too, putting on her flashy red party dress, and then Evelyn arrived, honking boisterously from her car.

"Why, what a beautiful gown, Lucille," she said as I took my place in the backseat.

Before I could respond, Anne filled her in. "It's from Gatsby," she said impressively. "She tore her other one at the last party and he sent her this one. It's from Croirier's. Must've cost hundreds of dollars, don't you think?"

But Evelyn didn't care about the price. Even though she was driving, she turned around and looked at me. "You MET Gatsby?" she hissed enviously. Then, without waiting for me to answer, she added, "Do you think he's really killed anyone?"

"I . . . I don't know. I only met him very briefly," I said, feeling that an intense expression of opinion of Gatsby, whether of laud or censure, would betray the depth of my feelings for him.

Evelyn returned her eyes to the road with a sigh of exasperation, realizing she wouldn't get any information from me. Anne gave me a glare as if annoyed with me for disappointing her friend.

I shrugged and turned my eyes to my lap, gazing at the rich detail of my dress. The silver beads made patterns like constellations of stars, and I traced them with my finger.

Anne and Evelyn quickly returned to other gossip, forgetting about Gatsby, who was to them nothing less than a legendary figure. But, having met him, I could not forget him.

We arrived after the party was well in motion. Drunken hordes of shallowly happy people swarmed about. I did not care about any of them. I only cared about the man behind the party.

I soon lost Anne and Evelyn in the flood of people, and I went to make my way into the house, where I was sure Gatsby would be, examining the party from the safety of some private room.

But then I saw a flash of blond hair in the crowd, a splash of golden richness floating above the unanimous dark suits of the men, and I turned, and it was Gatsby.

He had a woman in his arms. She had milky white skin and a sleek blonde bob and slender arms littered with jewels. Even from a distance, I could tell she was beautiful.

None of this would have mattered to me, if not for the way he was looking at her. He was wholly absorbed in her, or maybe she was absorbing him. He was looking at her the way all young girls want to be looked at by a man. The way I wanted to be looked at by him.

Losing all purpose, I blindly made my way up the smooth stone steps and took a seat at a table on the balcony, where I could see the whole party spread out below me. I saw those two blonde heads spinning around at the center. The colors and people and music seemed to swirl and converge around them until they were the sole focus, the epicenter.

There were two men on the other side of the table, and they too seemed to be absorbed with something below them.

"How do you think she knows him?" one of them said in a gruff voice. He was a solid, belligerent looking man with a mustache which made him look even more stern than the deep lines of his face.

"I don't know," the other one replied. He was a small but handsome man with a thin smile and eyes of such a dark shade of blue they could almost have been called navy.

"Who is he anyway?" The angry man was relentlessly shooting out questions without waiting for an answer; attempting to control the situation by ensuring that no one else knew what was going on either. "I don't think I much like this fellow. I heard he was a bootlegger."

"Not Gatsby," the other one said firmly.

"Well, I don't care who or what he is, I don't like him hanging out with my wife."

So the beautiful blonde woman was his wife. But then what was she doing looking at Gatsby in that way?

Apparently the man didn't know either, because he got up and followed a sleazy looking girl into the house without a backward glance.

The man with the dark blue eyes and I were at the same table, but we might as well have been on different planets. He seemed preoccupied by something, and he kept looking out at the party and then back at his hands, which were folded neatly in his lap.

And then Gatsby and the woman disappeared, and my hope left with them. I felt utterly lost.

I am ashamed to say that I got hopelessly, irrevocably drunk. I grabbed glass after glass of champagne from nearby waiters and gulped them down, hardly even tasting their fizzy tang. The green light in the distance seemed to get bigger the more I drank; the pulsating illumination waxed larger with each throb until it consumed my horizon. Drunkenly I wondered if the green light was in my eyes now, as it had been in Gatsby's the first night we'd met.

Hours disappeared unaccounted for and the party was dying. The man was still sitting across from me, and I noticed that he was drinking, too. I wondered what he was trying to drown out.

I wandered inside, staggering blindly, and found myself at the grand piano, which had been abandoned by the musicians who'd been playing earlier. I ran my hand over the sleek ebony wood and took a seat. Fingers found keys and I was playing, playing as I'd never played before, playing as I'd never even known I could play. Each haunting note lingered in the air until it was pushed aside by a new one.

A sudden motion from the corner of the room made me stop playing. It was the man from the table, slouched hopelessly in a chair. His head drooped onto the hand that was attempting to prop it up. He'd moved abruptly and was now looking at me, as if startled by my music, and I looked back, into his long blue eyes that seemed pools of sadness.

We looked at each other for a while, until he was reduced to his eyes. I saw my own sorrow and uncertainty reflected there, and I realized that everyone at this party had deep wells of anguish which they disguised with drinking and dancing and shallow, fleeting joy.

Suddenly, a man in a dark suit entered the room. He strode purposefully to the chair the blue-eyed man was sitting in and grabbed his arm.

"Come on, old sport, you've had too much to drink."

It was Gatsby. Even in my intoxicated state I recognized his voice; deep and smooth with a hint of an unexplainably intriguing accent.

He helped the drunk man out of the chair and the two began walking out of the room, Gatsby supporting his friend.

I saw his face as he passed by, not even seeing me. His lips were slightly parted, his tanned skin glowing. Love for the woman he had just left was etched on his skin. The green light in his eyes was gone; they now sparkled with the brilliance of love.

And so, he loved her. I had known it all along, really, had known it since I'd seen him dancing with her cradled in his arms. But now, I had no doubts. My illusion was fractured.

I sat on the piano bench and scrunched the fabric of my yellow dress in my hands and cried, and cried, and cried, over the love of him.

I had no idea how much time had passed before I felt slender arms lifting my crumpled figure off the bench. It was Anne and Evelyn, come to wrestle me into the car and take me home.

As we drove away, I saw Gatsby by the pool, talking to the man with the dark blue eyes. He spoke animatedly, gesturing with his arms. I wondered if he was talking about her.

I turned towards them, stretching my arm out of the back of the car, reaching for some unexplainable thing just as Gatsby had reached for the green light the first night I'd met him.

And then the distance faded him, and I took my seat, a tear rolling down my face.

That was the last time I ever saw Jay Gatsby.


	3. Chapter 3

After that night, his house went dark. The parties just . . . ended. People soon forgot about the mysterious Gatsby and the marvelous parties he'd thrown every Saturday night, and moved on with their lives.

That is, until the accident.

It was all over the papers. His dead face, smooth and boyish, was plastered on the cover of every newspaper and tabloid for months. How tragic it was that he only gained a face once he was dead, and then it was besmirched by the death of others.

For Gatsby had killed a woman. Myrtle Wilson. He'd run her over with his shiny yellow car and hadn't even looked back.

And the girl in the car with him. Daisy Buchanan. Daisy, like the one on Gatsby's ring. Daisy, the girl he'd loved relentlessly, inexplicably.

And Myrtle's husband George, who'd walked up to Gatsby's house on a bright afternoon and shot him in his swimming pool, before turning the dirty gun on himself. He'd thought that Myrtle was Gatsby's mistress, and maybe she was, but I can't imagine a man who'd looked at Daisy the way he had taking a mistress or being involved with anything less than the purest form of love.

I found that I could not blame George; had had been acting out of love, or perhaps out of a memory of the love he'd once felt. But still it haunted me. The filthiness of this murderous love struck me, and I wondered how love could be noble, and why people spent their whole lives looking for it, when it made people do such terrible things.

I did not cry when I heard the news, but rather sat very still for a while with a deep, hollow ache in my chest, the newspaper crumpled in my hands. And even when I moved again, began living my inevitable life, the emptiness followed me for a long time, and my heart ceased to feel as deeply as it once had.

My heart was broken; but what was worse, my mirage had been shattered.


	4. Chapter 4

One day, a few months later, once everyone had again forgotten Gatsby's name, I found myself at his house.

I'd been in West Egg to visit a relative, and it was a beautiful day, so I decided to park my car and walk along the shore.

I found myself at his house. Only when I arrived did I realize I'd been wanting to go there all along, pulled by the invisible threads of destiny which ruin so many lives and advance so many others.

The mansion was just as stunning as it'd always been, perhaps even more so without all of the people cluttering it. But it seemed hopeless, somehow, empty and used and alone.

The sun caught the smooth marble and reflected it back at me. I looked at the blinding glare of a second-story window and realized it was the library window, the one Gatsby had looked out of so intently the first night I'd met him.

I turned around, shading my eyes with my hand, and looked directly across the bay, but the green light was gone, gone like my illusions of the man who had so desperately clung to it.

A noise from my left startled me, and I turned abruptly, feeling guilty, as if I'd been caught trespassing on the sordid details of someone else's life.

A man in a crumpled suit with his hat in his hand stood a few feet away. It was the man with the dark blue eyes from the party.

"I'm sorry," he said, though neither of us knew what he was apologizing for; perhaps he wasn't apologizing to me at all. "I didn't think anyone would be here . . ."

His tie was crooked and his face needed a shave and gin was on his breath. His eyes were lighter in the sunlight than they'd been at the party, but they still held an inimitable sorrow and confusion which bled through every aspect of his mannerisms.

"I . . ." I'm not quite sure what I had been about to say, but I switched directions abruptly. "I came to parties here once, and I met Gatsby. He was very kind; I tore my gown, and he sent me a new one. It's a terrible tragedy."

He didn't say anything for a long pause, but rather looked at me deeply. He must have sensed some masked emotion behind my words. I got the impression that he was a man used to observing others, and honest enough so as not to delusion himself about their virtues, or their vices. This relentless honesty was perhaps the true reason for the despair in his eyes.

"He didn't do it," he said finally, looking at me but not quite meeting my eyes, as if too exhausted by the weight of other people's lives to lift his head all the way. "Daisy was driving."

"Daisy . . ."

"My cousin. He loved her; was in love with her, in fact." He motioned around him nonspecifically. "All of this was for her. She lived just across the bay."

"The green light . . ."

"The green light was hers." He frowned, as if wondering how I knew about the light. I got the inane sense that he was questioning if I were indeed real, or just a figment of his overworked mind. Apparently deciding it didn't matter, he continued, "She's gone now, and so is the light. She and her husband left right after it happened. Didn't even come to the funeral."

I did not know what to say. Emotions too deep for words flooded through me. Relief, sorrow, anger. Anger at the beautiful and lucky woman who had been loved by Gatsby, and who did not even have the decency to attend his funeral.

"That's . . ." My mind searched for a word to sum everything up, but failed. Words did not seem proper, and yet there was nothing to do but talk.

"Tragic?" He shrugged. "It's real life." Then, perhaps regretting his bitterness, he added, "At any rate, I'm glad I knew him. Not many people got that opportunity."

I nodded. "I met him only once, briefly, but I feel I know him, too; know him more than perhaps all but a few people do."

Another pause, but not awkward; rather, pregnant with the deep emotions of two souls who did not know how to express what they were feeling.

"My therapist says I should write it down." He laughed sardonically. "But . . ." He shrugged, and all the shattered illusions in the world were contained in the defeated motion of his world-wearied shoulders.

The idea seemed absurd to me, too. Something as flat as paper could never express the complex mystery of the man named Jay Gatsby, and it seemed futile to even try. But perhaps the most futile tasks are the only ones truly worth accomplishing.

"I'm Nick. Nick Carraway," he said, telling me his name after he had told me his sorrow.

"Lucy," I said, and shook his hand loosely. "And thank you for . . . for telling me he didn't do it."

Nick nodded. He understood why this mattered to me. I believe he even knew I'd been in love with Gatsby. His dark eyes lingered on me for one long pause and then, giving me a thin-lipped smile, he turned and began to walk away.

When he reached the end of the grass, he turned back. "He was," he said staggeringly, "the most hopeful man I've ever known."

And with those words, he left. I never saw Nick Carraway again, but I will forever be struck by how deeply he was attuned to the sufferings of others, and how much they affected him. His simple honesty made him perhaps the deepest person I've ever met.

And Gatsby. No longer a murderer; rather, a protector of the woman he loved.

I loved Jay Gatsby. Perhaps I still do. Or, perhaps I love the idea of him. He was deep and hopeful and passionate and like no other man I've ever known.

And reaching. Always reaching, stretching, yearning for that green light, the future of the past. His desire for the unattainable was his fatal flaw, but also his saving grace.

And so, I loved a man who could never love me back, a man who did not even know I existed because all he could see was the light of the woman he loved. He was an impossible man to save; the only thing that could have saved him was returning to the man he'd once been.

I think back on Nick Carraway's words often. "At any rate, I'm glad I knew him."

And while Gatsby will never know it, because of him, I love more deeply, live more boldly, laugh more loudly. Because of him, my world has color, bright as the radiant yellow of my party gown.


End file.
